


...then I decided I was a lemon...

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bars and Pubs, Character Study, Douglas Adams, Gen, Hint of suicidal thoughts, Pool & Billiards, Towel Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 01:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Alternate first meeting. John's in a bad place. Sherlock sees him. He might just be able to help.“...and then I decided I was a lemon for a couple of weeks.”― Douglas Adams, Life, the Universe and Everything





	...then I decided I was a lemon...

**Author's Note:**

> There's a phrase in billiards, "laying down the lemon." It's when a player conceals their actual skill level and intentionally plays poorly to deceive their opponents.
> 
> Also, bees knees is a legit gin based cocktail.
> 
> I swear, all of this will make sense. LOL.

“Bees knees.”

The barman glared at him and continued wiping the bar with the suspicious looking rag.

“A simple gin cocktail. Lemon juice. Honey…”

“For the last time, this ain't one of your poncy clubs.”

Sherlock leaned across the bar and gestured flippantly around the smoky, dingy pub. “Are you afraid something as civilized as honey might class up the place?”

“What I'm afraid of is the likes of you being tempted to make this your regular.” The barman mixed a gin and tonic. “You're bad for business.” He reached for a lime wedge, but glanced at Sherlock before adding it to the drink.

Sherlock shook his head and held up three fingers. The other man rolled his eyes and added three lemon wedges to the drink before passing it over.

“You're an odd one.”

Sherlock hummed, set the glass on a napkin someone had written their number on, and turned to scan the room. He yawned and turned back to the bar. “I detest this place.”

“But you like trouble.”

Sherlock stabbed at one of the lemon wedges with a toothpick. “Tell me about him.”

“That's not how this works.” A server walked up with a tray, and he pulled a few pints for her. He looked at the men gathered around the billiards table. “I'm no rat.” He shook his head and sighed. “This one's different.”

“He's not the one causing trouble.”

“He's definitely a hustler. Discreet. Careful. Think he might be the one _in_ trouble.”

Sherlock ran his finger through the condensation on his glass. “Former military. Age and tan lines say Middle East conflict. Injured in action. Judging by the wear of his clothes, in London for five… No, six months.”

The other man looked back at him, only slightly surprised. “I didn't even tell you which one.”

“Spotted him when I came in. Lost the first game intentionally. He'll win this one, but barely. He's not been well, his control is off.” Sherlock glanced back, then focused on his drink. “He's desperate. _Needs_ this win.” He looked up at the barman. “He's a regular but not frequent.”

“Decent bloke. Quiet, stays mostly to himself. Comes in once a month, around the time you'd expect someone living on a pension would come up short. Buys a pint of the cheap stuff and watches the tables for an hour or so before making a wager.”

“Never breaks pattern,” Sherlock added, not waiting for the other man to continue. “Never faces the same opponent twice. Always loses the first game, barely wins the second…”

“Leaves with more than he came in with after the third. Orders a basket of chips to go.”

“What's different about this time?” Sherlock turned to fully face the billiards table.

“Besides the fact he looks like shite? More than usual, anyway? He was just here ‘bout a week ago. These blokes may drink themselves stupid, but they ain't blind.”

“He's taken an uncharacteristic risk.” He steepled his fingers under his chin and studied his query.

Greying blond hair, cut in a military style, but longer than regulation length. Dark circles under his eyes, three day’s worth of facial hair. Too thin, the worn military style jacket hung too loosely. Tremor in his left hand, range of motion hindered, so shoulder wound. Moved freely around the table rather than rely on the cane he'd propped, and forgotten, against the wall. Possible leg injury, more likely psychosomatic symptoms. There was something else there, beyond the sense of hopelessness, a keenness to be certain, but something _more._

“He lives nearby. There's mud splatter on his trousers. Wouldn't spare the expense of a cab, so he walks.” Sherlock turned back to face the barman.

“There’s a block of flats, rubbage bedsits, really, just near here. Mostly veteran housing. One of the lads has seen him about.” He exhaled slowly and set the glass he was wiping aside. “A mate stayed there after he came back. He wasn't right after, you know?” He tapped the side of his head. “Told me the guys who stay there only stay temporarily. They either end up on the streets, or on a slab.”

Sherlock stared at him a long moment, then nodded slightly. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“I do what I can for the ones who come ‘round.” He blinked a few times rapidly and sniffed. “I can't read ‘em like you can…” He refused to look Sherlock in the eye.

“But you know a lost cause when you see one.”

“Called you, didn't I?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I'm hardly qualified to talk to this man. Practically suicidal myself. A psychopath, depending on who you ask.”

“I don't know ‘bout all that.” He signalled someone back in the kitchen, and a moment later sat a basket of chips in front of Sherlock. “But I do know you organized a network of homeless lads to help with your crime fighting.” Sherlock eyed the chips suspiciously. “Thought maybe you could find a place for a trained soldier who knows a bit of doctoring, before your inspector friend has to get someone to scrape his brains off the floor.”

“Doctoring?” Sherlock spun around and stared at the man.

“Mentioned something once about being a surgeon.”

“Damn it. There's always something.” Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Fascinating.” He glanced back. “In ten minutes send a fresh basket, two roast beef sandwiches, and two pints back.”

“What about this abomination?” The barman motioned to Sherlock’s untouched drink.

“Not the kind of lemon I'm interested in.” Sherlock grinned as he made his way back to the billiards table. He circled the table slowly, watching as the game gradually turned in the soldier’s favor.

Sherlock assessed and observed. He overheard the man's name was John, and he was increasingly intriguing. Skilled at billiards, but more so at pretending not to be. Observant, Sherlock was aware John knew he was being watched, and was on high alert. He had indeed been ill very recently, was still recovering -- upper respiratory, likely made worse by wretched living conditions -- hence the need for additional funds sooner than normal. And his eyes… Those were a deep shade of blue Sherlock wasn't certain there was actually a name for.

The game ended, with John collecting his winnings. “One more.” The challenger slapped a wad of bills on the edge of the table.

John coughed, he looked truly exhausted. Absolutely spent. “I don't know.”

“Best two out of three. Unless you're worried.” The other man stepped right up to John and laughed menacingly. Sherlock fought the urge to step in.

“‘M not,” John shook his head. He actually looked feverish. He leaned against the table and coughed again.

“Best two out of three, winner takes all,” John's opponent looked him up and down, “or I settle for what you've got there. Consider it a coward's tax.” He pointed to the stack of bills John had been sorting.

John considered the cash, and Sherlock could see him weighing his options. He stopped John from sliding it forward by covering John's hand on the money with his own. “I'll make that bet.”

“What? Who the bloody hell are you?” John yanked his hand away.

“A concerned party.” Sherlock took some bills from his wallet. “You play, I pay.” He looked from John to the other man, they stared back in confusion. “Winner takes all.”

“I don't understand,” John shook his head.

“I do,” the challenger eyed the hefty sum. “I understand this posh bastard just made the worst investment of his life.”

Sherlock hummed. “I disagree.” He turned to John. “I will explain. After you win.” The other man scoffed.

John narrowed his eyes and studied Sherlock for a moment. He nodded once. “I don't know what your deal is.” He exhaled deeply. “But… Fine.”

The game started slowly, the two men seemed evenly matched in skill, though John had the advantage, despite his distracting cough and the tremor that nearly cost him a crucial shot. His opponent saw the weakness and made an aggressive play. With a glint in his eyes and a suddenly steady hand, John countered, and the game was over after a few short minutes.

“Cheat!”

“I assure you, he is not.” Sherlock scooped up the prize money and handed it quickly to John. “That was a regulation victory.”

“There's no way he could have beat me!”

“Wrong. It’s no one's fault but your own that you don't understand when your adversary has outwitted and outplayed you.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Now leave.” He handed John his cane and ushered him to a table set with the food he'd ordered.

“Excuse you,” John tried to duck away, but Sherlock blocked him.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“Yes.” John glared holding the cash in one hand and not leaning on his cane with the other.

“I think we can help each other. Have dinner with me.”

“I… What?” John blinked up at him, stunned.

“Dinner.” Sherlock pointed to the food and pulled out a chair for John.

“I…” John shook his head and tried to hand Sherlock the money he'd bet. “Here. I have to…”

“This is yours.”

“It's not.” John took a step closer, still ignoring his cane, holding the cash out on his palm.

Sherlock reached out and closed John’s fingers around the money. He closed his hand around John's. “Winner takes all,” he mumbled as he stared into John's eyes.

“Yeah… Oh - okay. Uhm, thanks?” John was staring right back. “I don't even…”

“Sherlock.”

“I'm John.”

“I know.” Sherlock abruptly dropped John's hand, the close contact overwhelming.

“Of course you do.” John laughed nervously and glanced at the food.

“Sorry. Dinner?” Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, suddenly at a loss for what to do next.”

“Starving.” John took his seat and waited for Sherlock to sit. “So, explain.”

Sherlock nodded, closed his eyes and took a calming breath. When he opened them again it was with an intense focus that John probably should have found more alarming than he did. Sherlock studied him and leaned in. John’s breath caught.

With a smirk, it began. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”


End file.
